Chris Ramsey feels lucky, and thinks we should, too. It is not just that this young South Shields comic is already a panel-show mainstay and gigging to sellout crowds. It is that we are fortunate none of our billions of ancestors died before they had children. And that each of us, uniquely among 200m sperm, manoeuvred into pole-fertilising position. Isn't that amazing, says Ramsey? Well, yes – but it is also slightly banal. I waited for an insight into good fortune, and got none. But of bouncy, well-executed and unexceptionable standup, there is plenty.

Ramsey hugs the middle of the road more tightly than a painted chevron, as he tells us what a card his dad is, and how no one makes eye contact on the tube. He is eager to ingratiate himself, apologising that he is about to get "slightly scientific" (if only), and reassuring us that a knob gag will be along soon. There is nothing remotely scientific about his dappy thesis, whereby he claims to be lucky to be born to his particular parents, because, as a northerner, he could easily have been born to some Jeremy Kyle Show deadbeats. He is even luckier, you might think, not to be struck off for crimes against clear thinking.

But we are not here for intellectual rigour. And you can't argue with Ramsey's good-natured bonhomie and steamroller technique. The scrapes with mortality he had as an infant, which form the show's central section, may not be unusual. But Ramsey powers them up with cartoonish storytelling flair, leaning into the audience, insisting we hang on his every word. A closing skydive set-piece is similarly efficient, although the sentimentality and climactic call-backs are too neatly constructed. Lucky though I feel to have been made from gold medal-winning sperm, I would feel luckier still if Ramsey's material was as emphatic as his delivery.

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